A Little Christmas Paradise at 221b
by Detective In Training
Summary: John. Sherlock. Christmas morning. Need I add more?


A little Christmas paradise at 221b.

Written for m0rphinetoast, as part of the Sherlock Secret Santa!The fluffiest (Christmas) Johnlock story I've ever written. Completely OTT, but I need season 3 more than air, and imagining them this happy and content with each other is the only thing keeping me going. Happy Christmas!

John awoke with a start, eyes wide open, breath coming out in ragged gasps. His fingers shakily found the still-warm impression of a head on the pillow next to his, reassuring him that the nightmare of Sherlock dying was simply that – a nightmare. He allowed himself to linger in bed for a while longer, feeling the memories of the past few months lazily chase around in front of his eyes – that moment when three years later, he'd seen Sherlock sitting in his armchair one evening after John had limped back from work in the pouring rain; the easy way in which they had fallen together; the way their lives seemed so uncomplicated now, their own personal battles and demons fought and won.

A loud "John, JOHN! Get yourself downstairs, will you?" jolted him from his reminiscing, and John obediently scrambled for his robe and slippers, and yawning made his way to Sherlock. The air was dense with the acrid smell of burnt bacon and toast making his throat clench and eyes water, and – hey –Sherlock had made breakfast… whatever was up with that?

"Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?" John demanded, but in response only had a mug of scalding tea thrust into his hand. Something was definitely off here "…Sherlock? Is everything alright? Coming down with the flu, are you? What did I tell you about diving into the Thames after that suspect last week?" "Don't be daft, John. I'm perfectly fine. I'm making breakfast – can't you see that's obvious? Besides, that 'suspect' was going to get away with precious information about the Turkish ambassador and I wasn't about to allow that happen. Now, do you want one egg or two?"

John blinked slowly, and then blinked again. The last time Sherlock had made him food or drink of any sort was during the Baskerville case when he'd drugged John's cuppa; however, he couldn't see any reason for Sherlock repeating that experiment again, so he carefully sipped at his tea. "Well, of course I can see you're making breakfast – or rather murdering it. It's just an unusual change." Sherlock put down the slice of toast he was buttering and looked directly at John. "Don't you think that everything about…this," he waved the butter knife in the air vaguely gesturing at them both, "is an unusual change?" John felt the corners of his mouth lift slightly and he nodded in response. "If you'll make breakfast more often, I think I could get used to these unusual changes," he smirked. "Now, do you need some help with that bacon or are you experimenting on the carbonizing rate of bacon rashers?"

John stood by the window, fresh mug in hand, watching the white flakes gently glide down outside their window. The day had definitely gotten off on a good start, he mused to himself. He'd succeeded in getting Sherlock to clear away his experiments from a corner of the table enabling them to eat breakfast properly (after he'd made John swear not to throw anything away), and he'd also extricated a promise from Sherlock that their food won't be poisoned by anything in their vicinity. There were a few strands of tinsel strands decorating the room (despite Sherlock's complains about the pointless necessity of Christmas. 'It's all a pretence for people to waste money on things that nobody needs, so that corporates can quadruple their incomes, and everybody is obliged to turn their houses into a train-wreck of glitter and fake snow, while wearing hateful sweaters.' 'I thought you _liked_ my sweaters.' 'I wasn't talking about _your _sweaters.'), Molly had called (sounding somewhat wistful) to wish them both a Merry Christmas, and Lestrade (amused but cheerful) popped by with a bottle of homemade eggnog. Mrs. Hudson's gingerbread biscuits looked (and tasted) scrumptious in the place of honour on the mantelpiece; and Sherlock's skull friend wore a little paper party hat John found in a cracker during Lestrade's party the day before.

His reverie was interrupted when he suddenly became aware of Sherlock's presence behind him. Sherlock cleared his throat nervously and turned John around by his shoulder. John raised his eyebrows inquisitively as he was presented with a small, flat and circular package that showed serious attempts at being wrapped; however, judging by the crumpled and torn wrapping paper (decorated - from what he could see - with fat, jolly elves and star-bedecked Christmas trees), he guessed that the package had defeated Sherlock in their wrapping wrestling match. "People give presents for Christmas to each other, isn't that so? This is…something… for you. From me." Sherlock looked smug as a cat, yet John noted a tinge of pink tinting his ears as he took hold of the present. "Wrapping paper get the best of you, Sherlock?" John laughed. "Thank you, though. You shouldn't have." Opening the package was almost too easy as a glass Petri-dish slid out from the unevenly taped paper and almost fell through his fingers. He lifted it up and placed it against the window so that light could shine on it…and the little clusters of bacteria growing inside it. "Err… thank you, Sherlock?" his eyebrows lifted so high up his forehead they threatened to vanish into his hair; his face a mess of confusion. "This will definitely come in useful whenever I'll need to plant bacteria in a crime scene, or on a sandwich to make sure Anderson won't touch it."

"No, John. You don't understand. This is _my_ bacteria – I grew it from a cheek swab for you so that you could have something… _from me_." Sherlock swallowed and all smugness gone, now looked positively ready to bolt waiting for a reaction from John.

But John stared, utterly flummoxed for a split second before the hilariousness of the situation overtook him, and he threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Oh, Sherlock... Bless you... Honestly, the things you come up with…" Wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, he looked up at Sherlock and in all seriousness said "You know, I am really quite glad that not everyone takes things quite as literally as you. However, I don't think I've ever received quite as special and unique a present." He took Sherlock's hand in his as he smiled a thank you, and reached up to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

"I guess it's my turn now to give you your Christmas present. Funnily enough, it's something _from me_ too." Sherlock's bouncy locks danced around as he gave his head a slight nonplussed shake, staring at John quizzically. Releasing Sherlock's hand, John reached into his pocket and took out a square and small jeweller's box with a tiny, holly red bow on it, which he'd planned on removing but then decided that it gave the gift a slightly less serious air. Sherlock tensed his shoulders and narrowed his eyes as he accepted the little present. "Sherlock…relax. It's not what you think it is," John explained, trying to make up for the awkward silence that suddenly filled the room. A barely perceptible tremor moved Sherlock's long, spindly fingers as he fumbled with the clasp, and John was rewarded by an unguarded, sharp intake of breath when the box finally split open revealing its contents. "John… is this…?" "Yes, Sherlock. It is." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "It's the bullet that hit my shoulder in Afghanistan. It was lodged there as I breathed what I thought were going to be my final moments until I woke up in hospital, alive but no longer fit for duty. It's the bullet that brought me back to London. It's the bullet that brought us together. So, yes - it is a part of me, but it's also a part of you. I had kept it to remind me of what caused my life to end, but I never thought that it would be what made me start living."

John drew in another lungful of air and held it in, trying to coerce his erratic heartbeat to slow down as he stared at Sherlock's face, waiting for a muscle to clench or an eyelash to flutter to betray his emotions, but Sherlock stood still and expressionless as though carved from perfect and flawless white marble. Then all of a sudden his lips trembled and John found himself held tightly in an enveloping hug, while Sherlock whispered "Thank you…thank you, John," incessantly into his hair.

After what seemed an eternity, they finally disentangled themselves from each other. "Merry Christmas, John," Sherlock uttered. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," John replied entwining their fingers as they stood side by side in front of the window, watching buffets of snow transform the world outside - the world they knew so well - into a sparkling white, snow covered vision.


End file.
